#menace lucerys

[sleeplessdreamer123]

Short prompt Idea! (Lucemond)

Lucerys is a menace of a gremlin, raised by Daemon to wreak havoc amongst the people in King's landing.

He first showcased this by being the one to kill Vaemond in his tirade. He drew Dark Sister from Daemon's hand and sliced him, though his cut was not as clean due to him having a weaker swing, leaving the head hanging by a small piece of flesh and bone. When they began accusing him as a kin slayer, he simply told them that since his uncle publicly admitted to not seeing him as a nephew, would it still be considered kin slaying if one of them disowned the other?

During the dinner, when Alicent tries to pray for Vaemond for his soul to be in peace, Lucerys continued that his soul should be in peace as he burns in the seven hells, not caring for the glare from Alicent or from the guffaw of Aegon.

When Aegon began teasing Jace, asking if he knew how to please Baela, Lucerys interrupted, pointedly telling Aegon that if he wished to know more about Jace's prowess in bed, he need not beat around the bush and just ask Jace to fuck him like one of his whores, earning a shocked gasp from Alicent and stares from the table (save for Helaena, who was busy with a spider she found early on).

When Lucerys saw the pig, he smirked and laughed, and when Aemond raised his glass and gave the final tribute, he held Jace back, and walked towards his uncle, took his cup and drank all of its contents while looking straight at his uncle, thanking him, for despite his lack of an eye, he can still appreciate his nephews, though Lucerys also jokingly proclaimed that although he was not the wisest, nor the strongest, he is at least the most handsome out of all of them, easing the tension as Jace smacked him on the head playfully when he sat down.

When Aemond grabbed him after dinner, he was already tipsy from his uncle's wine, and asked if he still wished to admire his handsome nephew, which annoyed Aemond to no end.

He called him a bastard, one unworthy of the Valyrian household, and Lucerys sighed, almost bored, stating that his mother is the firstborn full-blooded Valyrian princess, who's parents are of Targaryen descent. His father, Laenor, and his grandfather, Corlys, both proclaimed him their own, the heir to Driftmark. That is much more important than whatever drivel Alicent decided to spread. He was also taught of Old Valyria, of his ancestry and trained as a Targaryen and a Velaryon. His blood, his status, and his name are more than worthy.

Then he pushed back. What made Aemond believe he was worthy? A second son of the second wife, ignored by his father and his mother, no title, no lands, no riches to call his own. A half Targaryen acting more like a Hightower, not even taught proper High Valyrian, let alone the culture and history that the Targaryen name holds. He was raised under the Faith of the Seven, who looked down on Targaryens and their customs, and taught him nothing. How does it feel, to only be Targaryen in looks and name alone? How does it feel to not even be half as worthy as the "bastard" Aemond believes his nephews were?

Aemond wished to kill Lucerys for his words, but was stopped by Daemon. He glared as Lucerys waved a goodbye to his uncle, calling him Hightower like an insult. He swore he would make Lucerys pay for that.

[darling-winnie]

Lucerys is lucky that the only sibling he really has to deal with is Aegon and his million of inappropriate questions and unnecessary tips while Aemond has to mainly deal with Joffery. Lucerys doesn't understand how Aemond was able to put up with this his whole life.

Aemond now understands that Joffery is 100% Daemon's son. He's a tiny menace. He's going to ask the twins to constantly ask for Lucerys so they can annoy him.

[delulujuls]

the other one | jacaerys velaryon

hi, here comes the 2.7k of i don't know what, really. its for sure intense, so fasten up your saddle and enjoy the ride. i enjoyed making aegon such a cutiepie in my two last shots, but this man is designed to be a menace to humanity so yeah, i believe im gonna lose it in the next shots. prepare for chaos.

summary: heart want what it wants, and y/n's heart belong to young prince from dragonstone, not to the future cruel king of westeros.

warnings: targaryen brothers being mean to velaryon boys AGAIN, aegon is such a meanie oh god, fighting, arguing, threatening with a sword, last scene is smelling a bit like a rap3, so feel free to skip it. your comfort is the most important

pairing: sister!targaryen reader x jacaerys velaryon (ft. jealous, possesive and dark!aegon targaryen)

Two young princes stood at the gates of the castle, awaiting guests. For several minutes they kept glancing at the sky, looking out for dragons. However, only the sound of wind and waves crashing against the rocks could be heard, with no indication that any winged beasts would soon appear before their eyes.

“Do you think they’ll come at all?” Lucerys asked his older brother, glancing at him. The cold wind chilled him to the bone, and the youngest of the Velaryons longed to return inside and sit by the fireplace.

Jacaerys did not get a chance to answer because shortly after, a muffled roar reached their ears, and something flickered in the low-hanging storm clouds. The heavy sky was pierced by the massive body of Vhagar, who was the first to emerge from the clouds and flew towards the beach. Close behind were Vermithor and Sunfyre, who looked dainty in comparison to those two giant dragons. Aemond, Y/N, and Aegon had arrived at Dragonstone.

Soon after, all four appeared at the castle gates. Helaena was flying with her older sister on Vermithor, choosing not to sail by ship with their mother, father, and grandfather. The youngest of the siblings still couldn't bring herself to travel alone on the back of her Dreamfyre, but felt confident with Y/N, now walking hand-in-hand with her sister towards the castle.

Lucerys took a step back, seeing Aemond and Aegon confidently striding towards them. The youngest Velaryon swallowed hard.

“I hope they don’t sit close to us,” he whispered, prompting his brother to discreetly nudge his arm.

Jacaerys smiled at the sight of the siblings. “Welcome, it’s good to see you here,” he said.

Aemond, leading the way, wore his characteristic grimace, nothing like the smile the young prince offered him. The last thing he felt like doing was feigning politeness. In silence, he merely glanced at them, bypassing them and pushing the heavy gate doors.

“My favorite, strong nephews,” Aegon said sarcastically, with a mocking smile. Passing by, he nudged Lucerys in the shoulder, who was about to turn and say something when his aunt’s voice reached his ears. Y/N smiled joyfully at the sight of Rhaenyra’s sons.

“Luke, Jace,” she extended her arms, hugging them both at once. Hearing the girl's joyful voice, Aegon glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. He thought his sisters were too lenient with those bastards.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” Jacaerys smiled, embracing her and catching the smell of her lavender-scented hair. While he sincerely disliked Aemond and Aegon, he was very fond of their sisters. Helaena was shy and harmless, often speaking little and nodding more. Y/N, on the other hand, often reminded him of his mother, unafraid to speak up or defend her position. She was also wise and very pretty, and he was genuinely pleased to spend a few days in her presence.

“Are you coming, or are we going to freeze out here like a bunch of idiots?” Aegon asked sharply, seeing Y/N hold onto older Velaryon a bit too long. The young princess gave him an amused look, tousled Lucerys’ hair, and linked arms with Helaena. The four of them briskly walked towards the castle.

Rhaenyra was celebrating her thirty-second name day, so the entire family from King’s Landing had come to Dragonstone. Viserys wanted his daughter to celebrate her birthday in the capital, but she wished to spend the day her way. The ailing king, still battling illness, had no intention of arguing with his daughter, lacking the strength and health to do so. Even to the Targaryen seat, he chose to sail by ship rather than ride on the back of one of the dragons. After Balerion’s death, he had given up flying and now didn’t think about it at all.

During the evening feast, the dining hall filled with people. Despite it being Rhaenyra’s day, Viserys sat at the head of the table. To his left was his eldest daughter, beside her Daemon, Joffrey, Lucerys, Jacaerys, Rhaena, and Baela. On the king’s right sat his wife, next to her the Hand of the King, then Aemond, Aegon, Y/N, Helaena, and Rhaenys Targaryen, next to whom, at the other end of the table, sat Corlys Velaryon.

The feast went on in a calm and surprisingly pleasant atmosphere. Previous feasts often ended in arguments before they even really began. The main instigators of all disputes, Aemond and Aegon, sat quietly, not speaking much. Many might have thought someone stuffed hay into the dragons’ bellies to prevent them from breathing fire.

Aegon, however, increasingly clenched his hand around the wine goblet from time to time, hearing Y/N happily talking with Jacaerys across the table. His blood boiled hearing her so delighted with the conversation with him. He felt like slapping that fucking son of a bitch.

Helaena was also having a good time, shedding her shyness piece by piece with each sip of wine. She chatted lively with Rhaena and Baela, who were already slightly tipsy themselves. Rhaenys sent an amused look to her husband, who tightened his grip on the wine jug and pulled it closer. The Sea Snake had to be vigilant to prevent his granddaughters and the young Targaryen from getting too drunk. Helaena, however, had more to celebrate than just her half-sister’s birthday.

Since Viserys and Alicent’s daughters reached reproductive age, the Hand of the King and the Queen Mother began looking for potential suitors for them. While there was no trouble finding suitors for Y/N, who, besides her wealth and possessions, had a strong character and good disposition, finding a husband for Helaena was problematic.

From birth, the princess showed signs of abnormal development. Though she grew as a girl should, her mind seemed not to keep up, still trapping her in a world of childish dreams. Helaena was quiet, read a lot, and spent all her time in the garden, not burdened with unnecessary duties.

The Hand decided that when the time came, that is, when Aegon was to take the throne from the ailing king, he would marry Helaena, and Y/N would marry Forrest Frey. The plans were made at a Small Council meeting, which neither Helaena nor Y/N attended. Probably neither would have known about the plans to marry them off if Y/N hadn’t accidentally overheard their conversation when one of the doors unguarded by sentries was ajar.

“I don’t agree!” she said firmly, pushing the heavy doors and entering.

“Y/N, you can’t be here-,” Alicent stood up, wanting to calm her daughter, but she sharply pointed her finger upwards. “And you can’t do this to Helaena! I don’t agree!”

Aegon, who was one of the people at the table, also didn’t support the Council’s idea. However, he was too drunk to make any objections. Only his sister’s intrusion somewhat sobered him up. If he had to choose, he could marry Y/N since she wanted to fight so hard for Helaena’s better fate. Frankly, he didn’t care either way.

The guards first wanted to remove the young princess, but she began presenting her arguments. The Council didn’t think an eighteen-year-old’s arguments could make any sense, but many underestimated Y/N’s negotiation skills. In the castle, by Aegon’s side, she could be more useful than in the Riverlands beside Forrest Frey.

The Council decided that Helaena would marry Frey when the time came, and Y/N would marry Aegon. The young princess didn’t want Helaena to spend her life in the castle, locked in chambers and bearing children. She wanted her to break free from King’s Landing and experience a life different from the one she had lived so far. Y/N knew that unlike her sister, she could handle an incestuous marriage and an unwanted husband, who Aegon was to become in the future. Helaena might have been driven to suicide.

But for now, these were just tomorrow's problems, or who knows, maybe even further. Helaena, in a sudden burst of joy, stood up and climbed onto a chair, much to Alicent’s horror.

“To my beloved sister Y/N,” she said, swaying. Rhaenys held the chair to prevent her from falling. “And to my sister Rhaenyra, who celebrates her birthday today. I love you!”

Alicent, Otto, Aemond, and Aegon looked at her indulgently, raising their goblets. All the other guests eagerly toasted, applauding the young princess’s words. Rhaenyra stood up from the table and hugged her sister; Y/N also rose to do the same.

“Helaena needs rest,” Alicent whispered, gripping her daughter’s shoulder before she stood up. “Escort her to bed.”

Y/N shook off her hand and got up, embracing her sisters. However, when she felt Helaena’s heavy body in her arms, she held her close around the waist.

As soon as the sisters left the dining hall, Jacaerys, sent by his mother, joined them. Young prince apologized to Y/N and with a single, confident motion, picked up Helaena, who laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed his cheek, admitting that she would let such a handsome man whisk her away without hesitation.

Jacaerys only let go of Helaena when he placed her on the bed in her bedroom.

"Will you stay with her until morning?" he asked as Y/N began removing the rings from her sister's fingers.

"Helaena usually sleeps like a mouse under a haystack, but after wine, she sleeps like a rock," Y/N replied, smiling slightly at the sight of her sister's flushed face. "Wait outside, I'll change her for bed and join you."

The young prince nodded obediently and left the chamber. He stood outside the door, straight as a string, feeling like a guard. Shortly after, the princess joined him, quietly closing the door behind her.

"She'll sleep like a baby until morning," she assured, laughing softly.

"It's nice to see her with a smile on her face," Jacerys admitted as they slowly began walking down the corridor. He quietly offered his arm to Y/N, which she gladly accepted.

"I've noticed she smiles much more when she's here. I feel like the capital is suffocating her."

Jacaerys lowered his gaze. He had recently learned about the marriage plans for the young sisters.

"I heard she'll leave King's Landing sooner or later," he said, glancing at her. He didn't know how delicate ground he was entering.

The young princess sighed and nodded. She spent the whole way telling Jacaerys about everything that had happened in the past weeks. In the company of the boy, Y/N didn't feel like his aunt, as their relationship would suggest, but like a friend. After all, they were only a year apart in age. They had always had a good relationship and, unlike her hostile brothers, Y/N really liked Jacaerys. She cherished every opportunity she could spend with him. This was one of those moments.

The pair didn't return to the feast; instead, they went to one of the terraces. They sat on one of the benches, and Y/N involuntarily rested her head on the boy's shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her waist, hugging her close.

"You deserve more, Y/N," he said quietly. "Both you and Helaena deserve more."

"I know I'll manage, I'm strong," she said, watching the remnants of the day dance on the horizon. "But I'm so scared for Helaena. She deserves the whole world, not what's waiting for her in King's Landing."

The young princess wasn't sad; at this moment, she could even say she felt a lightness in her heart. Jacaerys' body warmed her pleasantly, and the cool, salty air chased away the heat caused by the wine from her cheeks.

"You're the bravest dragon I've ever known," he said with a smile, looking at her face. The girl smiled at his words. "I don't know stronger people than Targaryen women."

"Do you really think so?" she asked quietly, looking into his eyes. She didn't know if his cheeks were flushed from the wine or the cold wind. Nevertheless, his dark eyes looked at her so gently that the young princess never wanted to look into any other eyes again.

Jacaerys smiled and nodded. He cautiously lifted his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He touched her cheek and gently stroked it with his thumb.

"I would take better care of you than they would, you know?" he said after a moment, his whisper lost in the whistle of the wind. Y/N heard his words clearly, just as she clearly heard the snort of disdain that came from somewhere to the side.

"I don't know which of you is more pathetic," Aegon said, looking at them with drunken eyes. He could barely stand, but his fists were clenched. Aemond remained silent, standing in the entrance and blocking it with his body. Unlike his brother, he didn't look drunk.

"What is your problem?" Y/N asked angrily, standing up. Unintentionally, she shielded Jacaerys with her body, who also rose from the bench.

"That you act like a complete whore," he spat through his teeth, causing Jacaerys to step around the girl to stand in her defense. She grabbed his hand and pulled him back when Aemond drew a dagger and stepped forward, defending his brother.

"Watch your words," Jacaerys said angrily. He didn't care that he was addressing the future king. In his eyes, Aegon wasn't worth anything, and he certainly didn't deserve to be Y/N's husband.

"Or what, bastard?" Aemond asked calmly, looking at him intently.

"We haven't done anything wrong," the young princess said sharply, though her voice trembled. She knew that her brothers were unlikely to hurt her, but she wasn't capable of protecting Jacaerys from both of them. She had only her hands, feet, and teeth at her disposal. "Get out of the way."

"Oh, really?" Aegon smiled. His drunken eyes were shiny from alcohol and dark-circled, his skin ashen. Even despite the fire of hatred burning in him, he didn't have a bit of a blush on his face. "I see a fucking dog clinging to my future wife."

"You wish she were your wife," Jacaerys said without thinking much about the words that left his mouth. Aegon lunged at him with his fists, to which the young Velaryon responded in kind. Aemond sheathed his dagger and grabbed Jacaerys by the shoulders, holding him and exposing him to Aegon's blows. In the commotion, the young princess managed to draw her brother's dagger and without hesitation, grabbed Aegon by the hair, pulling him back. With tears on her cheeks, she pressed the sword to his neck.

The four of them froze in place.

Aemond still held Jacaerys tightly, blood was trickling from his lip. Aegon's heart was pounding, not from fear but from adrenaline and, at that moment, also from excitement. His sister's small hand was firmly gripping his hair, forcing him to tilt his head back. Blood flowed from his broken nose, running down to his grinning lips.

"She's a dragon, see?" Aegon said, addressing Jacaerys. "You couldn't handle her, fool."

Y/N pushed her brother to the ground, releasing the dagger from her hands as well. She grabbed Jacaerys' hand and pulled him from Aemond's grasp, who would have lied if he said his sister's behavior didn't leave him speechless. In shock, he wasn't even able to oppose her.

"I'm so sorry," she began tearfully, pulling him away as far as possible from that place. "I should have killed them when I had the sword in my hand."

Jacaerys pulled her by the hand, causing her to turn around suddenly and fall into his arms. Without a word, he kissed her, feeling her salty tears mix with the blood from his split lip. Y/N returned the kiss but looked at him in shock. Jacaerys smiled warmly at her.

"Don't apologize to me," he whispered, cupping her cheeks in his hands. "You are a dragon, so be a dragon."

The pair didn't return to the feast. Instead, Y/N went with the young prince to his chambers. Jacaerys initially protested when she said she would help dress his wounds. Eventually, he agreed to her proposal, lying on the bed in just his trousers. The girl carefully cleaned his cuts, placing a cold compress on his abdomen. She sat beside him, looking at him tenderly.

"I'm so sorry, Jace," she whispered, squeezing his hand. The boy, however, seemed to be in a good mood.

"If every fight with them means I get to spend time with you, I'm ready to fight them every day."

The young princess smiled and shook her head at his words. She felt her heart swell when she was with him.

Their eager lips exchanged a few more kisses before Y/N quietly left his chamber, returning to her own. Helaena was still sleeping soundly, snoring softly. She lay on her side on her half of the bed, not even stirring when her sister began preparing for sleep. Dressed in a nightgown, she let her hair down and carefully combed it. She put the brush away and blew out the nearby candles, lying down on the bed.

As soon as she covered herself with the quilt, she felt someone sit on her, pressing her into the mattress, and a cold hand covered her mouth. The girl wanted to scream but felt a blade against her neck. The attacker leaned over her, his hair tickling her face. The young princess smelled alcohol.

"Every time you raise your hand against me," Aegon whispered, tightening his grip on the dagger's hilt, "I'll have one of your fingers cut off, understood?"

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. For the first time in her life, Aegon truly frightened her. She felt her heart leap into her throat.

"And that fucking Velaryon dog," he moved his hand from her mouth to her hair, gripping it tightly. "I never want to see him near you again."

"Aegon-" she whispered with difficulty, clutching his wrist to push him away. She felt herself running out of breath, and the cold blade pressed deeper into her skin.

"Is that clear?" he growled, pressing her harder into the pillows.

"Yes," she said tearfully.

A moment later, she felt her brother's alcohol-tainted lips forcefully and brutally kissing hers. Aegon stood up shortly after and left the sisters' chamber, closing the door behind him. In the darkness, the young princess found her sister's body and hugged her from behind, trying to suppress her tears. She was terrified.

How much she wished she could hide in Jacaerys's arms at that moment.

[leiabird]

Aemond: *taking out his knife* I WILL make it OUR stab wound!!

Lucerys: Aemond NO!

[Aemond and Luke reacting to the other being injured]

Aegon: He can't fight because he's been injured!

Aemond: I wasn't injured, I was lightly stabbed

Lucerys: I'm sorry, You were STABBED?!

Aemond: LIGHTLY stabbed

~~~~~~~~

Aemond: Lucerys, please, we need to take you to a maester

Lucerys: Oh, I'm sorry, is this OUR stab wound?

Aemond: ......

Lucerys: No? I didn't think so

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. II

Rhaenyra being Crenys' number 1 supporter

🗡

It only took a few hours for Daenys to wake up thrashing in bed. Panting and sitting up rigidly, Daenys struggled to clear her head.

Lucerys. She had dreamt of him tonight. In the midst of a storm, Arrax's wings beating as hard as the little dragon could manage in order to escape something. The silhouette of a menacing dragon loomed over Arrax and Luke like a shadow, deadly and unforgiving. He was being hunted like an animal.

Was the dream real? Daenys could hardly tell anymore. She had bizarre dreams and boring ones, never knowing the truth from a falsehood.

Sometimes, her dreams showed her what prank her brothers would attempt to pull on her the next day. Other times, it was horrors no young girl should be forced to witness.

She dreamt of Lady Leana's death by Vhagar's dragonfire and was awoken to being urged onto a boat to driftmark immediately. She had also dreamt of Ser Laenor, her father, dying peacefully of old age in his bed. Moons later, he had died in a fire that his own squire pushed him into.

Many a time, this happened, fooling herself into believing something was real when it was not. Daenys would run into her mother's chambers, sobbing and begging for her to listen. After Ser Harwin's sudden death, the first real prophecy that Daenys had foretold, Rhaenyra knew that her nightmares were no mere tall tale. Then, came Lady Laena immediately after, and Daenys had not stopped sobbing for weeks, blaming herself for both of their deaths.

She had never met Lady Laena, but Daenys was related to her through her father, caring for an aunt came easy even when not acquainted. Ser Harwin's demise struck her even harder. The knight had been her mother's sworn protector since Daenys was born. She saw him around the Keep more than she saw her own father, he had become a special figure in her life that was irreplaceable. Even Ser Erryk could never love the girl as he had.

When Laenor's death dream came, Daenys did not cry. She envisioned her father greyed and old on his deathbed, and she was certain that she would be right there with him when he passed on. She was wrong. Daenys would never forget rushing down into Driftmark's hall and seeing her father's hair and skeleton being dragged from the flames. Daenys could not save anyone. She was cursed with these dreams. She was cursed to be useless.

Fire had killed everyone she loved, and yet she still commanded it as all dragonriders do. Daenys had never commanded Morningstar to breathe her dragonfire after these events, nor stuck around when she burned her food to eat. She wondered now, if she ever was called to battle on Morningstar, if she could bring herself to use it.

Her mind liked to play cruel tricks on her. She desperately hoped that tonight was one of them. Her breaths were still ragged as she tried to calm herself, interrupted by the door slamming open. Daenys jumped in her spot, watching Cregan step in, Ice in hand. "Lord stark?" Her voice was groggy with sleep, although her mind was wide awake.

Still doning his formal clothes and furs, it was clear he hadn't yet gone to sleep, busy in his solar. "Princess? I heard a scream." He said, settling the longsword at his side as he scanned the room again.

Had she screamed? She couldn't have, Daenys' dreams hadn't caused such a reaction since she was a child. She had grown out of such humiliating behavior long ago. Surely, she did not do that whilst treating with a lord.

Daenys was lost for words, fiddling with the hem of the shift, all too aware of her state of undress in front of the lord. "Perhaps you heard Morningstar." She decided on. "Sometimes a dragon's song can sound quite human, the commonfolk often complain."

Cregan scanned her with a disbelieving stare, though he straightened himself and nodded. "Forgive me, I will take note of that. The maids will be made aware, too." He told her, placing Ice in its scabbard once more and shouldering it calmly.

"Is there anything I can get you, my princess? Tea, perhaps?" The question bothered her, his knowing and worried eyes feeling too close and suffocating.

Daenys stood swiftly, uncaring of her appearance. She placed her slippers on, brushing past him. "I will be back." She said firmly.

Cregan was stunned a moment, watching the young girl shoulder past him in a way that was unlike her usual demeanor. Her silver hair trailed loose behind her, white shift matching it in a way that made her look like a ghost haunting the Keep.

"Princess," he called after her, to no avail. Daenys disappeared behind the hallway walls. Cregan stood tensely, debating his next actions carefully. To be alone in the cold night was dangerous, but he wished not to trouble the princess any further. The absent look in her eyes was not something he would easily forget.

🗡

Rhaenyra and Daemon went through a similar routine each night. Both of them got ready to retire in their marital chambers, although separate. They both enjoyed the quiet time to unwind from the long day of council meetings.

No words were needed between the Queen and King consort.

"Are you sure it was the best decision to send Daenys to Winterfell?" Until now.

Sighing as she braided her shair over her shoulder, Rhaenyra glanced at him through her vanity mirror. "Do you have doubts?"

Daemon eyed her carefully, not wanting to speak ill of his stepdaughter. "You know I love her as my own." She nodded. "But, she has..a gentle demeanor. I'm not sure that pairing her and the Stark boy was the best choice for her."

Rhaenyra smiled, as if she knew something he didn't. "What?" He asked, facing her fully and raising his brow dramatically.

"You have little faith in our girl." Was all she said, amused and light.

"I have plenty faith in her. She has the strongest dragonbond of any of us. That is her strength, not negotiations." Daemon said, throwing his tunic off and tossing it away for the morning maids to wash.

Rhaenyra only hummed, "just trust me on this, alright? If it fails, I will personally ride to Winterfell and finish negotiations myself."

"You know that isn't possible, you cannot leave the council for so long." He deadpanned.

"Precisely."

🗡

Daenys wandered out of the Great Keep, not paying attention to the harsh shivers racking her body. Morningstar sang a tender and melancholy song to guide her rider towards her, in a field of snow outside of the keep's walls. In her trance-like determination, she had found a smaller side entrance to the stone walls that was simply a door instead of the gate meant for protection.

She followed the song until she reached the white dragoness, who was perfectly blended into the snow, and also blanketed by it to keep herself warm. Daenys joined her under her wing in the make-shift den, feet so cold in the thin slippers that they were now burning hot. The tips of her fingers followed, the heat contrasting the cold of the rest of her. Morningstar growled in concern, nudging Daenys gently and pulling her closer to the heat of her body. It helped, slightly, but Daenys payed no mind to the movement.

"...have your eye...pay your debt," she muttered against the wind of the night.

"Princess?" A voice called, yelling against it.

"...pay your debt...you owe a debt."

"Princess!"

Morningstar flared out, rising her neck to meet the lord of Winterfell. She growled, a fierce warning to stay away. Daenys came to Morningstar every time she woke from her dreams, staying for hours until the visions passed. Sometimes, they would huddle together for days.

"Princess, you must come inside." He urged, staying a clear distance from Morningstar to show his peace. He set Ice on the snow below his feet, hands out.

"...you owe a debt. One eye, one wing. One eye, one wing."

Morningstar trilled, covering her tighter from his view, muffling her voice. Cregan knew the Princess couldn't hear him, it was a useless endeavor. If she couldn't hear him, perhaps she could feel him.

He stepped closer to Morningstar's wing, reaching a hand gingerly toward her neck, watching as she growled but made no move to bite. "Easy, girl. I won't hurt her." He assured, petting her scaled neck.

She silenced, simply watching the man before her. He took that as a sign of approval, whatever kind of approval a dragon could give, and tucked himself under the large wing. The position was awkward, but he found himself enshrouded by warmth all around. Sitting beside the mumbling girl, he tucked Daenys carefully into his arms, stroking her hair comfortingly.

"One eye, one wing...one eye, one wing."

He would wait with her.

[violetastridhotd]

I know everyone really, REALLY wants Luke to be a menace to Aemond in Harrenhal like haunting him, taunting him, etc but here me out...

Lucerys being gentle with Aemond. He is forgiving. He is empathetic. He blames Aemond for nothing. He sees and appreciates all the sacrifices that Aemond has made for his family. He validates Aemond in a way that no one else has. And for a bit, Aemond feels so much better about literally everything.

And Aemond's heart and mind shatter because, if just anything had been different, THIS is the Lucerys he could have had in his life.

But Aemond killed Luke and nothing can bring him back. Not even a bastard Strong witch.

[thewaywardkees]

Luke is like that one cousin every adult in the family adores — 'cause he is acts all innocent and shy — but says and does the craziest shit when he is around people his age.

Like:

Luke around older Targaryens/Velaryons/Hightowers/etc: *blinks innocently* 🤭😇❤️✨

Luke around Jace, Aemond, Baela, Rhaena, etc.: Guess what I took from Grandpa's secret cabinet *takes out a bottle of booze from his jacket* don't worry, we'll blame Aegon 😜🤪🕺🏽🕺🏽

Where do people get the idea that Luke was this little sweetheart?? That boy smirked meanly (😈 the epitome of a mini-Daemon) at his scary uncle across the dinner table and had to be held back from trying to claw his face off

[damneddamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ix)

a/n: Silverwing being ride-or-die is my new favourite trope

Princess Aemma Velaryon's death reached Dragonstone only after her forlorn brother, Prince Lucerys, feverishly searched the seas and skies alike for any sign of her or Silverwing. All he came upon of her was the shredded length of her velvet cloak by the shores of Shipbreaker's Bay, his sister's sweet lavender perfume lost to the salt of the sea. He had clung to it like it was his lifeline, and that's how they found him in the Sea Dragon tower, within Aemma's chambers—crying his eyes out and calling out to her.

Luke sobbed deeply, pulling at his hair. "It should've been me."

Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon walked in on Luke, eager to see her children again, and eventually registering his undone suffering. Once the mother noticed the familiar article of clothing—formerly her own—she went insensate. Her shoulders shook, composure gone to ashes, and sank to her knees. Daemon was stoic to the scene, save for his hand that went to direly fist at his sword.

The older prince spoke first, relieving the tension. Despite his grave face, his tone was forbidding, intending to burn. "Who the fuck did this?"

Luke's upper lip curled, his hands clenching at his sister's cape. "Him."

Nothing else needed to be said. The reality of who was capable of executing such treason was well understood, though uttering his name was like spitting venom.

Rhaenyra roared out with the visceral fury of a dragon, and once that drained, she was but an empty vessel. She heaved a solemn breath, palming at her abdomen. The misery that wracked her labours was far less cruel than whatever this was, the anguish overwhelming, her chest aching with the burden of mourning two daughters, their deaths igniting the flames of war.

When she tearily looked to her side, Daemon had disappeared.

Prince Daemon had been conditioned to barbarity and grief, so much they were welcome drinking companions of his. Aemma was no different to this addition. In her, he saw echoes of his own turbulent youth—the same steely determination, the same unpredictability, the restless drive to remain an enigma to those around her. Perhaps it was this reflection of his own wild spirit that spurred him to seek out grisly revenge.

Daemon's warpath toward Caraxes suddenly stopped as he saw him standing before the painted table. The hollow swordsman. The one-eyed kinslayer. A mirror of Daemon's worst motivations. Here stood the rider of the beast that had slain his daughter.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister without hesitation, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air with a menacing swish.

"Poetic justice or self-destruction?" he muttered, masking his fury.

Aemond bore a black smile, barely lifting his lips. "Depends on which of us you ask, uncle."

X

Rumours had begun to spread that Aemond Targaryen had defected to the Blacks. Some even called it a surrender. Perhaps it was the stabs of a prickling conscience, the blood stains of love in his hands, or the affliction of sorrow that had overtaken him, making him ready to face the wrath of a grieving mother—and his own death. Bereft of his truest calling, shattered by dreams he had destroyed with his hands, the one-eyed prince swiftly concluded that life held no meaning without his princess. He intended to follow her footsteps soon enough, to fulfil the conclusive detail of their promise: never to part from Aemma henceforth.

Without Aemond and Vhagar, King’s Landing had become perilously vulnerable. The soaring pall of the largest and most terrifying dragon no longer loomed over the capital, and it was clear to all that their strongest defence was now absent. The Greens' was evidently morale staggered. With Vhagar’s absence, Rhaenyra’s forces could bring the fire with seven dragons and fewer consequences, and rumours of dissent spread throughout the city. The Greens were losing their grip, outmatched in numbers and firepower, leaving the smallfolk exposed and the city teetering on the edge of defeat.

Terrible fables spoke of King Aegon and Aemond One-Eye’s grandiose schemes to slay the false queen under the guise of begging for mercy. But these tales were discredited when it was revealed that Aemond had been imprisoned in the chambers of the late princess—a ruthless move orchestrated by Queen Rhaenyra. It was, in every sense, a final sentence.

“If that savage snake truly loved her,” Rhaenyra had said vengefully to her husband, “then that place will drive him mad. Let his evil haunt him. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I burn him.”

Yet fear was not something Aemond would entertain. He would sooner fall on his sword than show terror before his wretched half-sister.

Over time, however, he did fall—deeper into madness consumed by the unfamiliarity of being locked in the space that had once been Aemma’s. The burden of memory became the iron bars and chains of this prison. Numb to everything else, he wandered her chambers aimlessly, haunted by her absence. She was everywhere and nowhere at once—in the vanity, where strands of her hair clung to her hairbrush; in the bureau, where her meticulously folded maps and lists remained undisturbed; and in the faint perfume that lingered in the air, forever scenting her dresser.

A full moon's cycle passed before Aemond began hearing her voice. A breathy echo, a laughing whisper, a figment of his broken mind. With each crash of the waves against the jagged rocks beneath her balcony, he would catch that soft, familiar sound: My friend.

The echo eased him in ways nothing else could, drawing a smile to his face. If this was madness, it was madness he welcomed. My love, he thought, and in that moment, he would’ve gladly surrendered to it.

Jace was the one who finally confronted Aemond, his vengeance boiling over upon his return from the Vale. Sword in hand, he cornered the one-eyed prince in his sister's chambers. What was surprising was how the captive did not baulk at the sight of the angry prince. He simply tilted his head, offering his neck and awaiting the onslaught.

"Fucking murderous cunt," Jace spat, barely above a whisper, trembling with restrained fury.

Aemond was inured now. It resounded in his mind with every breath, a constant reminder of what he'd become. His gaze remained distant, vacant as he met Jace's stare.

"Mount your dragon," Jace ordered, dripping with disdain. "I only spare you this avail because of how dearly Aemma loved you."

Aemond didn’t even blink. It took more effort than expected to form words after days of silence.

"I will not fight you," he muttered, voice gravelly from disuse. "So, get it over with. Finish me."

But Jace wasn't about to grant him that release.

"You're coming with me," he growled, eyes blazing with wrath. "I won't believe my sister is gone until I see it with my eyes. Find me Silverwing, and only then will you get what you so desperately crave."

Aemond turned away, blinking back a rare sting of emotion clouding his vision. He had been so benumbed, that the sensation sliced him raw. His jaw clenched, forcing his voice through the anguish tightening his throat.

"Silverwing sank beneath the waves."

"Then she should've washed ashore by now," Jace snapped, his tone sharpening. "Or been spotted near Storm's End, or found by sailors off Driftmark. Someone would've seen her. I will not grieve with my family until I know for certain. Until I’ve seen damning proof."

Aemond’s teeth ground together in frustration. "My hope ended with her."

"Hope?" Jace sneered, the word wresting bitterly in his mouth. "Know this, uncle—gods forbid I find what I seek, you won’t just be dead to the realm, you’ll be nothing more than a relic of a prince no one will remember."

X

We cannot know the ancient minds of dragons. They were not merely instruments of war—they were beasts of chaos, as unreliable as the gales they rode. A bitter reminder of how little command Targaryens truly held, even over their own beasts. Yet, the Good Queen's Silverwing had always been distinct from the others—gentler, some would say, with a serenity that belied the strength coiled within her shimmering, pale-scaled body.

Her loyalty to her peaceful rider ran deeper than bloodshed or battle, for it was not assumed upon command or duty but of a friendship that transcended power. It was instinctual, a mutual loneliness that they shared. Silverwing had intuited Aemma’s presence since her first touch upon her scales, the soft whispers of affection, the implicit trust.

Following Aemma's descent from her dragon's saddle, the waters hit her hard, churning her into the abyss. Just as the waves threatened to pull her deeper, Silverwing cut through them, her talons outstretched, and in a swift, precise motion, she plucked Aemma from the depths before the sea could claim her entirely. Silverwing’s grip was painstaking, cradling her rider’s limp form between her sharp talons, ensuring she was protected. With a great struggle, Silverwing battered her wings against the storm, fighting the ocean’s pull, lifting them both back into the air, finding cover above the storm clouds.

And now, in the quiet of this remote sanctuary, camouflaged against rocks, their bond held firm, even as Aemma lay unconscious amidst the mud and grass, suspended between life and death.

The old dragon sensed more than the warmth of her rider's skin when she nudged her snout against her constantly, letting out a low, concerned rumble. She felt the pulse of her heart, flimsy but steady, the rhythm of her breath, shallow but resilient. Every beat, every rise and fall of Aemma’s chest was a call to Silverwing, one that she refused to neglect.

Silverwing would shift her body closer at night, nestling Aemma to the earth, her massive wing folded protectively over the young princess' limp body like a shroud of safety from the bitter storms and the chilliness of dusk. Her fiery breaths ghosted over Aemma, keeping her warm.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days, but Silverwing never left, only venturing far enough to find sustenance, returning quickly, her eyes scanning the skies for any threats that might approach. But none came. The world remained unaware of the little hidden firth by the hills and the fragile life it cradled.

Silverwing’s troth was not just an animal instinct—it was a devotion to the one person who had never treated her as a mere beast. For nigh on a week, Aemma had doted on her, spoken to her in the tongue of Old Valyria, just as Alysanne did, with the same reverence and care, and Silverwing, in turn, had taken her into the skies, free from the burdens of the mortal realm.

In this isolated place, far from the throes of war, Silverwing held the last vestige of hope for her rider’s survival. It wasn't until a dark-haired sailor had stumbled upon their refuge that the mighty she-dragon let out her first roar in a while.

Addam of Hull hadn't expected much that day. He had set out on his small boat with nothing but the hope of catching enough fish to feed Driftmark's shores. The oceans had been restless ever since the bloodshed over Shipbreaker's Bay, and his mind had drifted as the waves lapped at the sides of his skiff. He cast his net, whistling a well-known sea shanty, letting the salt air fill his lungs, when something unusual caught his eye, beyond a small inlet of water rambling away from the beach.

A flash of silver. A rustle in the trees.

As his little skiff crept closer and into the currents of the slight strait, Addam’s heart surged. There, nestled within the protective embrace of the rocks, lay a great silvery-blue dragon that was the name on everyone's fuller lips—Silverwing. Her glittering hide was unmistakable, though it bore the wear of days spent at the mercy of the weather. She lay low to the ground, her immense wings tucked tightly around something as if guarding a prized jewel.

Addam wasted no time. He rowed forth, with all the strength he could muster, his mind racing. Could it be? Could Princess Aemma have survived the hand of fate, the cruel sea, her murderous husband, and the relentless storm? Could it be that Rhaeynra's heir was very much still alive?

As he drew nigher, disembarking his boat and clambering up the rocks, Silverwing raised her head, her auburn eyes locking onto him with a vicious intensity. She cautioned him with a low rumble, ready to spew out her ire.

For a moment, Addam feared she truly might lash out, mistaking him for a foe, but she did not move. Instead, she took a prudent sniff and juddered her head, softening almost.

Eventually, she unfurled her wings narrowly, revealing the motionless form of Princess Aemma cradled beneath her. She was drenched, emaciated, tattered, bruised, and her silver hair matted to her gaunt face, but her chest rose and fell.

There was yet life in her. Barely. All alone. No one else. Just Silverwing standing vigil over her as if she’d been guarding the princess all these days. Ten days.

"Gods be good," Addam murmured.

Silverwing shifted away, stooping into the rocky niche, as if to offer her rider to him, but kept her weather eye on him. Addam made quick work of it, lifting her carefully into his arms off the wet ground. She was light, too light, but she stirred faintly at his touch.

"Princess?" He was unsure if she could hear him.

As he carried her back toward the boat, shrouded her in the coils of his nets, her fiery guardian observed the sailor, her vigilant eyes never leaving Aemma’s form.

She pierced a startling trill at her rider's saviour.

Addam jerked in shock, nearly dropping his docking ropes.

Silverwing rose off the ground, and shook herself off, wings beginning to unfurl as if preparing to take flight.

"You—er, stay," Addam stammered, desperately gesturing with his palms, trying to convey some form of command to the dragon.

He knew full well he was speaking to a creature that answered to no man but her rider, and she was not going to let just anyone snatch the princess away unless she was certain they meant no harm.

Carefully, Addam took a step closer, heart thudding in his chest as he bowed his head to the dragon.

"I'm not here to harm her," he said softly as if Silverwing could understand his plea. "I want to save her."

For a long moment, the dragon stayed unmoving, watching him closely, casting her own unfamiliar judgement. Then, with a slow and deliberate movement, she backed away scarcely.

"Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was thanking the dragon, the gods, or fate itself.

X

Returning Princess Aemma in such a state to her kin on Dragonstone would have them questioning Addam's heartening intentions toward her. Rather than have them cast their vile aspersions on him and taint his shoddy name further, the brothers knew it was only proper to nurse the princess to health before anything else. The secret of Aemma's survival would remain closely guarded for a while longer.

"She thinks I'm her father," Addam quietly shared with his brother, Alyn, upon the fifth evening of secretively nursing Princess Aemma in their meagre home. It had been a total of sixteen days since she was believed deceased.

Alyn raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the small, makeshift room where their heir to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lay in a thrifty cot, wrapped in linen blankets and tended to with great care. Her condition had steadily improved, but she remained barely conscious and frail.

"What do you mean, ‘she thinks I’m her father’? Is she delirious?" He asked.

Addam leaned against the doorframe, picking off the herbs from his thumb. "Perhaps she seeks comfort. And she finds it in the late Laenor."

As they spoke, a soft groan emanated from the cot, interrupting them. Aemma stirred, her dark eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again. Her lips moved silently, murmuring incoherent words. Addam and Alyn exchanged a glance, their choices harshening.

Alyn's brow furrowed. "How is she then?"

"Better than expected," Addam replied, shaking his head. "Her fever broke, I've stopped feeding her milk of the poppy. She recalls her mother often. The poor thing had nearly cracked every rib in her chest, the healers had to brace her spine with wood until yesterday. The blood of Old Valyria heals quick, I suppose."

Alyn nodded, absorbing the solemnity of his brother’s words. "And the dragon?"

"Stays close, hovers around the Driftmark groves. I've been feeding her, too," Addam said, shaking his head with a small, wry smile.

Alyn clapped his brother on his back, grateful for him. "How are you faring?"

Addam shrugged casually. "I’m doing what I can."

"Good. Keep watch," Alyn instructed, nodding at him. "On the morrow, I’ll prepare a fresh supply of herbs and check on the guards. There's only so long that we can keep her out of prying eyes."

Addam sat by the firelight in the hearth, his eyes constantly drifting to the young girl as she lay nestled beneath the heavy blankets, adjusting them around her again, his movements careful, almost tender. Every now and then, Aemma would stir, her brow twitching in her sleep, speaking illegibly. The flicker of the flames stained her face in hues of gold and shadow, silvery hair glinting, making her seem almost unearthly, untouchable. She could not have been older than fifteen, an age no child should have to raise battlements in a war.

“She’s strong,” Addam murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Stronger than I imagined.”

"A future queen," Alyn said. "There's hope for her yet."

X

The second sons of the Blacks and Greens, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, were unlikely allies as they scoured the realm despite their bitterness, united on a front to find a whiff of Aemma or Silverwing, searching high and low, from the misty mountains of the Vale to the shadowed peaks of Harrenhal and the foggy forests of the Riverlands. Every whisper of a silver-blue dragon sighting raised their hopes, only to be dashed moments later.

The weight of Aemma's absence dangled over them like a blade. Jace was fierce, relentless in finding that damned dragon himself, dead or alive. Maybe they were on a wild goose chase, led astray to not confront the reality that awaited them. Every dead end with clueless lords and fishermen was a new wound, yet he never yielded.

Their unwavering trepidation whenever the folk and lords saw Aemond cut deeper than a lash of a thousand scorpions. Each glance was a reminder, a searing echo of his own words to Aemma that fateful night: "Better to be feared than scorned." But now, as their suspicions pressed down on him, the question gnawed at his memory—was it really? The cold satisfaction he once sought had curdled into something far more bitter, and he found himself wondering whether 'fear' had ever truly been the answer, or if it had only left him more isolated, more empty.

Aemond, however, wore a stoic mask over his understanding of the truth, though beneath it, the torment tore at his soul. If Aemma's room had been perfect chaos, this was his purgatory. His nights grew sleepless, plagued by the recollections of his mistakes, the sight of her empty saddle still burned behind his eyes. He carried the guilt like a second skin, abrading when it got too thin. A little part of him was driven to heed Jace, an insignificant confidence, not by burden but by desperation—a need for redemption, to see her alive, to prove to himself that she had somehow survived.

Now, close to five nights, it had become custom for Jace, drunk on grief and rage, to drag his feet outside Aemond's pitched tent, embracing his shining sword, fighting his morals. Fighting the inevitable. Jace never spoke to Aemond directly, but his accusations found a way into his earshot.

"Aemma was good. Peaceful," he would hear Jace lament. "She had dreams. She was our sunshine. Now she’s out there somewhere, alone in death. Or worse. And you, of all people, claim to be the one who loved her? You never did. You fucking murderer. Selfish cunt."

This night, a familiar darkness flickered alight in Aemond. Unfailing despair powered him to react. He walked out of his tent, stepping forward in a threat until Jace's raging face was inches apart, his sword slipping from his grasp. His single eye narrowed.

"Say it again," Aemond dared, his voice low and cold. "Say that I do not love her. Say it, bastard."

Jace shoved him by his chest, his rage boiling over. "You threw her away like she was nothing! For your treacherous family! You never gave a fuck about her, and that is the truth!"

Aemond stumbled back but didn’t fight back. How could he, he had nothing left to withstand. His mouth twisted in pain, but his voice remained hard.

"Hate me all you want. Blame me. Strike me down. Your words hold facts. But don’t think for one second that your fury burns hotter than mine. Or that your love for her transcends mine own."

"Fuck you!"

Jace shoved him again, shouting out his rage, this time harder, the power of his wrath pushing Aemond back a step. And again and again, until Aemond fell back into the mud. Back again to ten years ago, when a spiteful Aegon had towered over him, Sunfyre peering over his shoulder mockingly.

Jace met his gaze, the two facing eye to eye, the consequence of years of rivalry and betrayal still fresh between them. But beneath it, there was something else now—shared desperation, grief that only they could understand. The closest brother of Aemma and her husband.

Aemond's breath hitched, bearing himself with his palms, the words barely escaping through his gritted teeth. He looked Jace in the eye, his jaw tight.

"I have nothing left. Seize your sword and end it all."

Jace leaned down, seething, his voice trembling with scorn. "Look at where your absolution got you. Begging your foes for death. Pathetic."

Aemond’s hand twitched toward his dagger on instinct, his face a storm of rage and remorse. He had been so accustomed to being on his back, bearing through the punches thrown, facing defeat, now when he was made to encounter this yet again.

"Yes. That is all you see," Aemond agreed, his expression darkening. "All you ever see. Aegon, Rhaenyra, you. A pathetic boy too sightless for power. I've belonged nowhere but with Aemma all my life"—his voice cracked—"and now she's gone, too. And I am left trapped in this resenting world."

Jace stayed quiet, breathing deeply.

"I could not save her," he whispered, the words hollow as they left him. "No atonement will ever free me from this, even while I chase forgiveness from a ghost. I will never know peace again until my last breath."

His trembling fingers unsheathed his dagger and threw it to Jace's feet. "Make your shot count, nephew. Plunge it into my other eye, and take what is due. I do not care anymore."

Jace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He took a step back, torn between fury and pity, his expression unreadable. He looked away, blinking back tears as if the significance of Aemond’s words was too much to bear. He couldn’t bring himself to speak—there was nothing left to say.

"You don't deserve peace, not even in death," Jace eventually whispered before walking away.

X

The air was dense with the scent of salt and damp wood as Aemma lay in a bed draped with soft linens, the faint sounds of the lapping waves against the rocky shores of Driftmark echoing in her ears. Her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible force. Pain coursed through her like a vicious tide, abrupt and relentless, yet there was a warmth surrounding her that whispered of safety.

Fingers of consciousness began to weave their way through the fog enveloping her mind. Flashes of memory flickered like distant constellations—Silverwing’s fierce wings, the chaos of the storm, and Addam’s urgent voice calling her name. She struggled against the haze, her heart pounding with the remnants of fear and desperation.

"Aemma." The voice broke through her reverie, softer now, tinged with concern.

She fought to open her eyes, the effort feeling monumental. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and the dim light of the stuffy room began to emerge. A figure stood at the foot of the bed, cloaked and hooded, shrouded in shadow.

A wave of shock washed over her, and before she could fully grasp the situation, he lunged forward, pressing a warm hand to her lips to silence her gasp. Heart racing, Aemma’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her memory sharpening.

"Ssh, my love," he shushed her.

She recognized the intensity in his gaze, even from beneath the hood. He hovered close, his presence both alarming and strangely familiar. His silver hair rolled off his neck and shoulders, catching the light and casting shadows that accentuated the depth of his expression. One striking violet eye shone through the darkness, piercing and filled with emotion, while the other was shrouded in shadow.

“Aemond,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, like the faintest breeze. It felt like a lifetime since she had last spoken, her throat dry and cracked.

He flinched at the sound of her voice as if she had struck a nerve. Slowly, he lifted his head, an indigo eye swirling with a charged storm—pain, regret, and something darker lurking beneath the surface.

His voice was as firm as steel, yet equally gentle. "We've done our parts here. You’re coming with me, and this time, forever."

X

[arcielee]

How House of the Dragon’s Ewan Mitchell became TV’s most chilling villain [interview + pictures]

He played Barry Keoghan’s geeky friend in Saltburn. Now, the 27-year-old from Derby is riding dragons as Matt Smith’s terrifying nephew.

House of the Dragon, the Game of Thrones prequel series, is coming to the boil for its second-season finale, a cauldron of Targaryen civil war, court skulduggery and dragon-on-dragon dust-ups. For many, the highlight of this season has been the emergence of a beguiling new villain in Ewan Mitchell’s Prince Aemond Targaryen, who has a character arc that’s more like a zigzag. Spoilers follow.

Aemond lost his eye to the knife of his cousin, Lucerys, got airborne revenge when his dragon, Vhagar, swallowed Lucerys whole and is now on the Iron Throne as prince regent after Vhagar barbecued the king, Aemond’s despised brother Aegon, into a walking kebab. What makes the character, though, is the chilling panache with which Mitchell plays him; an impassive psychopath behind his eyepatch.

The showrunner, Ryan Condal, has said that he was at times taken aback by the Derby-born actor’s intensity. “I sometimes forget to blink,” Mitchell, 27, says with a smile. “I need to just chill out a little bit.” Not if it means losing the edge that defines Aemond, the same contained menace that fuelled Michael Corleone. It’s a Dornish-hot day in Covent Garden. Mitchell is softly spoken like Aemond, with striking blue-grey eyes, but considerably more courteous and less terrifying. His hair, which he buzz-cuts for the show to accommodate a wig, has grown to a tousled mop, dyed a Targaryen peroxide for this publicity tour.

To help him to get into character Mitchell listened to Metallica and Slipknot (“Aemond’s straight out of heavy metal”), while cinematic inspirations included Kirk Douglas’s titular swashbuckler (“with his strong chin”) in the 1958 movie The Vikings, the icily evil android played by Michael Fassbender in Prometheus and slow-walking horror villains such as Michael Myers in Halloween. “That’s the message that Aemond wants to give off: that he has you in his sights and you won’t be able to escape him,” Mitchell says. Sometimes he took it too far. In one scene he stalked into the council chamber, “and [the director] Alan Taylor said, ‘Can you speed up the walk, please?’”

His dragon’s knack of pouncing midair (“She comes up out of nowhere like Jaws”) helps Aemond’s aura, as does that eyepatch, even if it took Mitchell a while to get used to when riding horses. He often kept it on between takes, he says, “because over the course of a couple of hours you develop a headache”. That, in his world, is a good thing because it helps to suggest a “volcano that’s boiling underneath the surface”.

We are increasingly invited to compare Aemond with the show’s other compelling bad boy: his uncle Daemon, played by Matt Smith. Both are spares who believed they deserved the crown more than the heir. “Aemond is a prince who stands to inherit nothing,” Mitchell says. “He recognised, similar to Daemon, that everything he wanted to achieve he’d have to go out and get himself. Daemon and Aemond — their names are anagrams of each other and he definitely looked up to Daemon growing up.”

Similarly, Mitchell was a fan of Doctor Who as a child and Smith was his favourite Doctor. “There is a certain resemblance as well. I remember my nan saying that,” he says. Now, though, Aemond and Daemon are on opposite sides, the former fighting with the “Greens”, the latter, nominally, with Queen Rhaenyra’s “Blacks”. Two men with brutal self-confidence, a sense of grievance and prominent chins … the stage is set for a bloody confrontation, as it was in the original Game of Thrones between the brothers Sandor and Gregor Clegane. Aemond has already said he would “welcome” a chance to test himself against his uncle.

When it will happen, Mitchell can’t say. In preparation, though, he and Smith have been avoiding each other on set. That was Mitchell’s idea, but Smith and Condal agreed that it would help them to keep their grudge-match powder dry. “In the same way that Aemond keeps Daemon on that podium, I wanted to keep Matt Smith on that podium,” he says. “Our stories are very much contained and we shot in different studio spaces, so we never really brushed shoulders.”

Mitchell has also decided not to watch or read the original Game of Thrones. “I didn’t want it to influence me whether it be subconsciously or consciously,” he says, before asking me, “Which one do you prefer, House of the Dragon or Game of Thrones?” It’s hard to say until this show is over, I say, although both are equally obsessed with incest. He looks puzzled. “There was only one Targaryen in Game of Thrones, right?” Erm, not quite but I don’t want to spoil it. He smiles. “I’ll get around to watching it.”

He has certainly steeped himself in the world of House of the Dragon, which was adapted from the book Fire and Blood by the Thrones creator George RR Martin and is set more than a century before the first saga. Mitchell drew Aemond’s family tree when he got the part and can’t hide his annoyance when he briefly confuses Driftmark and High Tide, respectively an island and its castle in the show. “I’m kicking myself,” Mitchell says, which feels typical of his obsessiveness.

What is it about the Midlands that produces actors with such bristling presence? Mitchell, like Paddy Considine, who played Aemond’s father, Viserys, in the show, is a working-class son of Derbyshire and studied at the Television Workshop, an affordable, inclusive drama school in Nottingham whose other alumni include Samantha Morton, Jack O’Connell, Bella Ramsey and Vicky McClure.

“It’s just an amazing platform that champions raw talent,” Mitchell says. “I didn’t necessarily possess the means or the finances to go to drama school — no one in my family has ever done it.” His father’s side is “very much military”, he says, his grandfather having served in the SAS in Malaya and Oman after the Second World War. “He was very stoic; didn’t show much at all.” So that’s where Mitchell gets it from — his friends in Derby, where he still lives, call him “the Iceberg”. “I keep my cards quite close to my chest,” he says and he certainly does when it comes to saying if he has a partner.

After graduating he got his break in The Last Kingdom, the medieval drama series, playing Osferth, a kinsman of King Alfred. Good practice for the sword swinging, horse riding and dagger tossing to come. There was also a small role in High Life, the sci-fi-horror film starring Robert Pattinson, and a bigger one in Saltburn, Emerald Fennell’s remix of Brideshead Revisited, as Barry Keoghan’s geeky mathematician friend — one of the few non-plummy characters. “Emerald would give me something new every single take: ‘Play this one like Travis Bickle, play this one like a serial killer,’” Mitchell says.

• Before Game of Thrones — the story behind House of the Dragon

Like Robert De Niro as Bickle, Mitchell is brilliant at showing vulnerability beneath the menace. He loved shooting the scene in House of the Dragon where a smirking, pre-barbecue Aegon finds a naked Aemond in bed with the brothel worker who has become a mother figure. Aemond’s real mother is Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower (Olivia Cooke), whom he, as regent, has just ruthlessly stood down from the Small Council. “He doesn’t want anyone else to notice that he actually really loves his mum,” he says. “Once the war ends he wants to be sat on a Dornish beach with her sipping piña coladas.”

“Horror is definitely a genre I’d love to venture into at some point.”

They may not get that far, although you sometimes feel that Aemond knows how things will pan out — he accepted the regency with a cool sense of inevitability. Condal has stressed the parallels of his story with the Greek myth of the Cyclops, Mitchell says. “He traded one of his eyes to Hades so he could see the day he would die.” Recent events have tested Aemond’s prescience, though, notably Rhaenyra’s recruitment of low-born Targaryen bastards to ride dragons. In the finale “you’ll see Aemond lose that composure”, Mitchell says. “He’s gonna get desperate, and you don’t want Aemond desperate because that’s when he starts to overextend.”

What next? Mitchell won’t say how many seasons of House of the Dragon he has signed up for and we know by now that anyone can be killed off with zero fanfare. He clearly loves movies, peppering his chat with references to Inglourious Basterds, The Untouchables and the M Night Shyamalan film Split, and says he would love to work with Jodie Comer, the Safdie brothers, who made Uncut Gems, and Rose Glass, who directed Love Lies Bleeding. Oh, and “horror is definitely a genre I’d love to venture into at some point.” He would be a natural.

tagging my beloved @assortedseaglass fuck the paywall

copy pasta from The Times

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

How House of the Dragon’s Ewan Mitchell became TV’s most chilling villain

He played Barry Keoghan’s geeky friend in Saltburn. Now, the 27-year-old from Derby is riding dragons as Matt Smith’s terrifying nephew

House of the Dragon, the Game of Thrones prequel series, is coming to the boil for its second-season finale, a cauldron of Targaryen civil war, court skulduggery and dragon-on-dragon dust-ups. For many, the highlight of this season has been the emergence of a beguiling new villain in Ewan Mitchell’s Prince Aemond Targaryen, who has a character arc that’s more like a zigzag. Spoilers follow.

Aemond lost his eye to the knife of his cousin, Lucerys, got airborne revenge when his dragon, Vhagar, swallowed Lucerys whole and is now on the Iron Throne as prince regent after Vhagar barbecued the king, Aemond’s despised brother Aegon, into a walking kebab. What makes the character, though, is the chilling panache with which Mitchell plays him; an impassive psychopath behind his eyepatch.

The showrunner, Ryan Condal, has said that he was at times taken aback by the Derby-born actor’s intensity. “I sometimes forget to blink,” Mitchell, 27, says with a smile. “I need to just chill out a little bit.” Not if it means losing the edge that defines Aemond, the same contained menace that fuelled Michael Corleone. It’s a Dornish-hot day in Covent Garden. Mitchell is softly spoken like Aemond, with striking blue-grey eyes, but considerably more courteous and less terrifying. His hair, which he buzz-cuts for the show to accommodate a wig, has grown to a tousled mop, dyed a Targaryen peroxide for this publicity tour.

To help him to get into character Mitchell listened to Metallica and Slipknot (“Aemond’s straight out of heavy metal”), while cinematic inspirations included Kirk Douglas’s titular swashbuckler (“with his strong chin”) in the 1958 movie The Vikings, the icily evil android played by Michael Fassbender in Prometheus and slow-walking horror villains such as Michael Myers in Halloween. “That’s the message that Aemond wants to give off: that he has you in his sights and you won’t be able to escape him,” Mitchell says. Sometimes he took it too far. In one scene he stalked into the council chamber, “and [the director] Alan Taylor said, ‘Can you speed up the walk, please?’”

His dragon’s knack of pouncing midair (“She comes up out of nowhere like Jaws”) helps Aemond’s aura, as does that eyepatch, even if it took Mitchell a while to get used to when riding horses. He often kept it on between takes, he says, “because over the course of a couple of hours you develop a headache”. That, in his world, is a good thing because it helps to suggest a “volcano that’s boiling underneath the surface”.

We are increasingly invited to compare Aemond with the show’s other compelling bad boy: his uncle Daemon, played by Matt Smith. Both are spares who believed they deserved the crown more than the heir. “Aemond is a prince who stands to inherit nothing,” Mitchell says. “He recognised, similar to Daemon, that everything he wanted to achieve he’d have to go out and get himself. Daemon and Aemond — their names are anagrams of each other and he definitely looked up to Daemon growing up.”

Similarly, Mitchell was a fan of Doctor Who as a child and Smith was his favourite Doctor. “There is a certain resemblance as well. I remember my nan saying that,” he says. Now, though, Aemond and Daemon are on opposite sides, the former fighting with the “Greens”, the latter, nominally, with Queen Rhaenyra’s “Blacks”. Two men with brutal self-confidence, a sense of grievance and prominent chins … the stage is set for a bloody confrontation, as it was in the original Game of Thrones between the brothers Sandor and Gregor Clegane. Aemond has already said he would “welcome” a chance to test himself against his uncle.

When it will happen, Mitchell can’t say. In preparation, though, he and Smith have been avoiding each other on set. That was Mitchell’s idea, but Smith and Condal agreed that it would help them to keep their grudge-match powder dry. “In the same way that Aemond keeps Daemon on that podium, I wanted to keep Matt Smith on that podium,” he says. “Our stories are very much contained and we shot in different studio spaces, so we never really brushed shoulders.”

Mitchell has also decided not to watch or read the original Game of Thrones. “I didn’t want it to influence me whether it be subconsciously or consciously,” he says, before asking me, “Which one do you prefer, House of the Dragon or Game of Thrones?” It’s hard to say until this show is over, I say, although both are equally obsessed with incest. He looks puzzled. “There was only one Targaryen in Game of Thrones, right?” Erm, not quite but I don’t want to spoil it. He smiles. “I’ll get around to watching it.”

He has certainly steeped himself in the world of House of the Dragon, which was adapted from the book Fire and Blood by the Thrones creator George RR Martin and is set more than a century before the first saga. Mitchell drew Aemond’s family tree when he got the part and can’t hide his annoyance when he briefly confuses Driftmark and High Tide, respectively an island and its castle in the show. “I’m kicking myself,” Mitchell says, which feels typical of his obsessiveness.

What is it about the Midlands that produces actors with such bristling presence? Mitchell, like Paddy Considine, who played Aemond’s father, Viserys, in the show, is a working-class son of Derbyshire and studied at the Television Workshop, an affordable, inclusive drama school in Nottingham whose other alumni include Samantha Morton, Jack O’Connell, Bella Ramsey and Vicky McClure.

It’s just an amazing platform that champions raw talent,” Mitchell says. “I didn’t necessarily possess the means or the finances to go to drama school — no one in my family has ever done it.” His father’s side is “very much military”, he says, his grandfather having served in the SAS in Malaya and Oman after the Second World War. “He was very stoic; didn’t show much at all.” So that’s where Mitchell gets it from — his friends in Derby, where he still lives, call him “the Iceberg”. “I keep my cards quite close to my chest,” he says and he certainly does when it comes to saying if he has a partner.

After graduating he got his break in The Last Kingdom, the medieval drama series, playing Osferth, a kinsman of King Alfred. Good practice for the sword swinging, horse riding and dagger tossing to come. There was also a small role in High Life, the sci-fi-horror film starring Robert Pattinson, and a bigger one in Saltburn, Emerald Fennell’s remix of Brideshead Revisited, as Barry Keoghan’s geeky mathematician friend — one of the few non-plummy characters. “Emerald would give me something new every single take: ‘Play this one like Travis Bickle, play this one like a serial killer,’” Mitchell says.

Like Robert De Niro as Bickle, Mitchell is brilliant at showing vulnerability beneath the menace. He loved shooting the scene in House of the Dragon where a smirking, pre-barbecue Aegon finds a naked Aemond in bed with the brothel worker who has become a mother figure. Aemond’s real mother is Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower (Olivia Cooke), whom he, as regent, has just ruthlessly stood down from the Small Council. “He doesn’t want anyone else to notice that he actually really loves his mum,” he says. “Once the war ends he wants to be sat on a Dornish beach with her sipping piña coladas.”

They may not get that far, although you sometimes feel that Aemond knows how things will pan out — he accepted the regency with a cool sense of inevitability. Condal has stressed the parallels of his story with the Greek myth of the Cyclops, Mitchell says. “He traded one of his eyes to Hades so he could see the day he would die.” Recent events have tested Aemond’s prescience, though, notably Rhaenyra’s recruitment of low-born Targaryen bastards to ride dragons. In the finale “you’ll see Aemond lose that composure”, Mitchell says. “He’s gonna get desperate, and you don’t want Aemond desperate because that’s when he starts to overextend.”

What next? Mitchell won’t say how many seasons of House of the Dragon he has signed up for and we know by now that anyone can be killed off with zero fanfare. He clearly loves movies, peppering his chat with references to Inglourious Basterds, The Untouchables and the M Night Shyamalan film Split, and says he would love to work with Jodie Comer, the Safdie brothers, who made Uncut Gems, and Rose Glass, who directed Love Lies Bleeding. Oh, and “horror is definitely a genre I’d love to venture into at some point.” He would be a natural.

[writingsofwesteros]

#princess of the dreadfort

After the incident at Lucerys’ petition for Driftmark, Rhaenyra and the children come to greet the other Targaryen Princess. She had been fussing over her son after Vaemond lost his head, so distracted by the chaos that she hadn’t seen her family come over. She had only been in to see her father and Alicent that morning, not wishing to be apart from her son and husband for too long.

The Bolton Lord is basically Daemon from the North. He loves to make uncomfortable jokes and revels in seeing people squirm. He likes power and watching the way people avert their eyes at the sight of him. All morning he had watched as court goers glanced at his wife in shock and he would smirk sadistically at the fright they would display upon glancing to her left.

Daemon likes the Bolton and resolves to drink with him later, but Rhaenyra is displeased. She notices the swell under her sister’s dress and can’t help but glare at the man. Her sweet docile sister had been saddled with such a man for a husband and now was the first time she had returned in six years, and the first time she had seen her nephew. Everyone at the table is shocked when the Bolton tells of their two other children at home, the sweet princess smiling as she tells them all about her children. Her husband doesn’t fail to mention that all of the children have dark hair and purple eyes, his eyes glancing over to Rhaenyra’s sons with a smirk (he’s the ultimate menace and doesn’t care what the Targaryen’s think). He keeps his wife close to his side for the rest of the day, the couple only reluctantly leaving their chambers for the family dinner that night. He’s so excited to witness more of the family drama his wife has told him so much about, her recounting how grateful she was to be far away from it.

(The Velaryon boys love their aunt and spend time getting to know their cousin. He’s a bit odd for their liking, only wanting to talk about fighting and Vaemond loosing his head, but he seems alright.)

!!!!

Rhaenyra not being able to hide her shock at the talk of the two other children left at home as she tries to speak with her sister. Sometimes, she's able to get some conversation before her good brother is desiring her attention.

Jace and Luke watching as their cousin softens when his mother comes over and makes sure he has eaten. There is no talk of Vaemond then..well, until she has gone from view that is.

[patolemus]

Plot twist: they think the other is threatening them because they don’t know how to show interest in normal and or socially accepted ways

Aemond and Lucerys don't know how to flirt but are somehow flirting with each other all the time.

[huramuna]

selkie's song - chapter 1.

night's watch aemond x wildling shapeshifter ofc work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

this is wholly inspired by @lonelymagpies depiction of Night's Watch Aemond. please go check out their beautiful work here!

i am also partial to selkies bc irish 🤭 i'm going to take some liberties with wildling lore since we don't know too too much about them and mix some of my own heritage into it (indigenous american and irish) , which i feel would meld really well.

previous | next chapter

word count: 2.2k

content: smut (eventually, specifics will be under the cut of chapters with it), enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, canon divergence, ofc is a menace to Aemond and he kind of likes it

who is she? - I MONSTER • dead! - my chemical romance

The blood of the dragon runs hot and thick, pulsing through Targaryen veins like molten lava. His mother always snuggled him as a child, citing him as her own personal furnace. 

If only that would come in handy now. Aemond thought he knew cold, way up in the skies, skimming the clouds upon Vhagar’s back, feeling the chill away from the heat of the earth. A frigid autumn breeze going through his window, causing him to bundle up in two blankets— although he usually kicked them off sometime during the night. 

But this— this was cold. Ball freezing, bone chilling, blue lipped cold. He was stuck up in the ass of the North, stationed at the wall, dressed all in black. He puffed up the collar of his cloak, trying to find some respite from the gales of glacial air. 

“Saddle up, Targaryen,” the lord commander grunted. He was a broad man, some disgraced Northman who rose his way up the ranks of the Night’s watch. Aemond could hardly remember his name, “We’re goin’ beyond the wall. Scouts said wildlings gettin’ too close.” 

“Mm.” Aemond grumbled in response, not wanting to waste his energy talking to the ogre of a man when it could be better used for warmth.

The stable boy, no older than nine name days, tugged his palfrey to him, “I’ve got ‘em all tacked  up for ya, prince.” 

“Oy, Ryam,” the lord commander snapped. Lord Ennard Fir, that was the commander’s name, “He ain’t no prince anymore, so stop callin’ him as such. He’s just one of us now, eh? A man in black.” 

Ryam nodded slowly, handing the reins to Aemond. The boy’s face was tinged red as he puffed air into his cupped hands, trying to keep warm. He was a boy from the south, just like Aemond— a butcher’s bastard boy, Ryam Waters. He had accompanied the now scorned prince on his ride up the Kingsroad. He reminded Aemond greatly of Daeron.

“Stay warm, boy,” Aemond said, giving the youngster a stiff nod of his head, “Take the fur from my bed, it’ll help.” 

Ryam puffed out his chest, “Uh huh, your grace,” he giggled, speaking the title in secret. 

It almost made a smile come to Aemond’s lips. Almost. He tried to remember the last time he smiled– it was on that fateful day near Storm’s End, over Shipbreaker’s bay. He was taunting Lucerys, finally being the stronger one, the one who had control. He laughed and smiled like a madman, chasing his nephew on his puny hatchling of a dragon. He felt like a god.

Then Vhagar snapped her jaws, ignoring Aemond’s commands. The sickening crunch of Lucerys Velaryon and his dragon still lived in his mind. It played in his dreams, making them into nightmares. He constantly woke up in a cold sweat, muttering, “It was an accident, it was an accident, I didn’t mean it.”

His eye began to ache and he clenched his jaw as he mounted his horse. Glancing around, he saw that five other men were joining him. He tugged his hood up slightly before his hand rested on his blade. He donned two weapons; a standard issue castle-steel short sword, and the Catspaw blade. He had watched his father carry it for years, he watched his mother brandish it in his name and cut Rhaenyra— and now it was his. 

Not by precedent or bestowment, he actually stole it. When he was being sent to take the black, he pilfered it from Daemon’s chambers. The old fucker already had one ancestral blade, he didn’t need two. It was the only thing he had left of home, besides the sapphire in his socket and his eyepatch. It was gorgeous crafted Valyrian steel and he always kept it on his person. 

His thumb grazed over the ruby gem on the hilt of the dagger absentmindedly as they descended on their journey, spurring their horses further across the threshold of the wall. Lord Fir was at the front, with Aemond holding up the back in their procession of ingrates and outcasts. 

If he told his younger self that he was to be lumped in with bastards, thieves, rapers and ne’er-do-wells, he would’ve laughed in his own face. It was a ridiculous notion for a Targaryen prince to be even entertaining the idea. And yet, here he was. Living it out. 

He wondered what his mother was doing currently. Had she taken Helaena and Aegon to Oldtown with the children? Did she stay in the Red Keep to be squashed under Rhaenyra’s heel? 

“Aemond Targaryen, you stand before Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, protector of the realm,” Ser Westerling had shouted, “You stand accused of treason, conspiracy to commit usurpation, and nepoticide. You murdered Lucerys Velaryon in cold blood above the skies of Shipbreaker Bay.” 

Aemond had been in chains, his face haggard and stubbled from not being able to shave. They stripped him of his eyepatch and sapphire at the hearing, sending him down to his knees with his barren eye socket to behold. 

“How do you plead to these charges?” Ser Harrold asked. 

Aemond said nothing. 

Rhaenyra sat upon the Iron Throne, tapping her finger incessantly against the metal, “Brother. I’ve granted you the courtesy of allowing a hearing to your… crimes, rather than simply sending you to the block. Mayhaps I was too lenient on my decision to let you say your piece.” 

Aemond still said nothing, looking down at the ground. He heard his mother shuffling near him, off to the side in the throne room, murmuring something hurriedly to someone. 

“I have nothing to say. Lucerys is dead— nothing I can say will bring him back or undo what’s been done.” he finally grit out, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

“So, you have no objection to being punished for your crimes? The crime of Kinslaying is the most cursed,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward, “Mayhaps I will grant you a death by dragon— I would honor you the same way you so graciously honored Lucerys, hm? Mayhaps have Syrax and Caraxes rip you limb from limb and scatter your parts over Blackwater Bay.” 

Aemond didn’t respond.

“Y-your grace,” Alicent spoke up, walking to Aemond and standing in front of him, “Please, have mercy upon him. Your son wouldn’t have wanted this—“

“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT MY SON WOULD’VE WANTED,” Rhaenyra bellowed, standing up from her seat, “Your son took away his ability to want anything, and for that there should be repercussions! A son for a son.” 

“Rhaenyra, please,” Alicent murmured, “Please, I can’t lose him— it… it was an accident. Aemond, tell her it was an accident!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to admit their family’s greatest fear was true; they did not have complete control over their dragons. 

Rhaenyra gazed at Aemond’s pained expression, then at Alicent, “He will be punished. But I would not become a Kinslayer— I do not wish to be as accursed as you, brother,” she strode back to the throne, twisting the rings on her fingers, “He will take the black and be sent to the wall. He will have no titles, no land, no wife or children. He will have nothing for the rest of his life except for the Night’s Watch.” 

Alicent was stunned, as was Aemond. He wondered if he would’ve preferred death. 

“In addition,” Rhaenyra continued, “His claim to his dragon, Vhagar, will be severed. He will undergo the Valyrian ceremony for it.” 

“You can’t,” Aemond growled, “You can’t!” he panicked— Vhagar had been the only thing he ever achieved in his life, truly. He lost his eye for her. 

“Take him back to his cell and prepare him for the ride up the Kingsroad.” she said with finality, looking down at her hand as she sat back on the throne. 

Aemond saw— she had been pricked by the throne, blood beading at the tip of her finger. 

Mayhaps there are still small mercies in this world. 

A particularly strong gust of cold air snapped him back to reality, his hand still itching over his dagger. They reached the thick treeline that stretched out for miles, their horses trudging through the snow. 

They were at least ten miles out from the wall now, the Seven Kingdoms left truly well behind them. A small river trickled near them and Aemond saw the shadows of fish— large ones at that. 

He had been in the Night’s Watch for at least seven moons now, and this was his first expedition outside of the wall. It felt like a whole different world— a world without laws, without political duty, without fights of succession over a throne made of swords— there was something freeing about being here. It was only a remnant of what he felt soaring the skies on Vhagar, but it would have to do. 

The wind whistled through the branches of the trees, fresh snow beginning to fall. He heard a fly buzzing near his ear. No, that couldn’t be right. Surely there weren’t flies in the cold? 

It wasn’t right— another fly whizzed past him, sticking into the man in front of him. Those were the arrows. 

“Ambush! Wildlings!” Lord Fir shouted, reeling in his horse. 

Aemond went to unsheathe his sword when his horse went haywire, rearing up on its hind legs. “Lykiri, lykiri!” Be calm, be calm. He shouted at the horse, tugging at the reins as the wildlings descended upon them. He felt like he was above Storm’s End once more, screaming for Vhagar to heed his commands—

His horse bucked him off, sending him tumbling into a deep snow drift. He dropped his sword somewhere aside— his hand immediately went to his waist, gripping around the Catspaw dagger. 

A breath of relief washed over him as he rolled and hid behind a tree, unsheathing the dagger. He twirled it around, waiting for someone, anyone to cross his path. 

He then felt the cool pressure of a blade against his throat. 

“Don’t move, crow,” a voice said. It was almost diminutive, soft in tone— but it was threatening all the same, “I don’t need to paint the snow red with your blood just yet. Drop the dagger.” 

Begrudgingly, he dropped the Valyrian steel into the snow. 

“Now turn around, slowly. Keep your hands out.” 

He turned around, expecting to see an ugly wildling in his gaze. He had only heard the tales of them, that they were more ugly than not. 

His breath caught in his throat as he looked upon her— she was small, much smaller than he, her skin somewhat pale and cool toned, freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. It was her eyes that caught him— one was a deep, rich brown, and the other was a light blue, with fragments and shards of brown in it, like a mountain against a clear sky. Her hair, dark chocolate brown with one streak of white in it, was tied into a haphazard braid. She wore earrings made of the lower jaw of some small mammal, inlaid with opals. She was holding a dragonglass dagger to his throat, the hilt of it carved from a deer’s antler, encrusted with a matching moonstone. 

She wore a long, white coat— it looked to be the skin of some animal, but Aemond couldn’t tell which. It was spotted and fluffed. 

His brow narrowed as he noticed that she was soaking wet, dripping water from her nose and hair, the sheen of moisture shining from her skin.

He could only imagine how astonished he looked staring at her— but she stared back at him in the same manner, her eyes wide. She had huge eyes, Gods be good. 

“Fucking hell, you’ve got a purple eye.” she murmured. 

“You should see my other eye.”

A harsh crack across his face— she had slapped him, “Don’t be a pig.” 

Aemond blinked profusely, “By the Seven— I meant my actual other eye,” he grunted, “May I?” he gestured to his eyepatch. 

“… better be worth it, crow.” she murmured, nodding slowly. 

He lifted his eyepatch off, revealing the sapphire underneath. 

Her lips were slightly agape as she ogled at him, “You’re a fancy crow, aren’t you?”

“Hm.” he grumbled. 

She retrieved the Catspaw dagger from the ground, stowing it at her hip, “I’ll be keepin’ this for right now.” 

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” he asked, perplexed as to why he wasn’t dead yet. 

“Not yet— you got interesting eyes, I wanna show my papa,” she retrieved a leather cord from her belt and wrapped it keenly around his wrists, “Caught myself a crow.” she hummed, seemingly entertained with herself. 

Aemond rolled his eye, letting her hoist him up into a standing position. He towered over her, to which she didn’t seem too bothered about. 

She led him past the battle, which was now over. He saw three of his Night’s Watch brothers slain, and it looks like two others had run off like cravens, including Lord Commander Fir. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“My tribe,” she replied, stringing him along. 

“Your… tribe,” he repeated, “And what is your name?”

“Euna. And you, crow?” 

“Aemond.”

[thetormentita]

the bastard queen - chapter 1

the things we do for love.

Pairing: Original female! Targaryen/Arthur Dayne

A/n: au for Robert’s Rebellion. Enjoy!

Rating: Mature (+16)

The strangling tension can suffocate even the most strong-willed courtier. With the hint of charred corpses still lingering in the air, Arthur Dayne wonders if the king has changed his clothes since the last night, where he delighted himself with the pleading yells of two prisoners as wildfire devoured them and the rest of the people gathered in the Great Hall drowned in horror.

With the reliable Barristan Selmy guarding the meeting with him, his lilac eyes observe the men as they take their seats around the wooden table, only the naïve Qarlton Chelsted and the newly appointed Hand Owen Merryweather to not show grim faces. The tension is palpable, a heavy cloak of discomfort wrapping around each lord present. The king's recent actions have instigated fear and uncertainty, even among the most loyal men.

As matters follow one to another, almost the whole group of men trying to decide what is best for the realm, Arthur’s mind is partly elsewhere, honed by years of duty and vigilance. His gaze, under the guise of passive surveillance, catches every subtle shift and twitch among those gathered. All of them or too cautious or too coward to dare and defy the monster with the crown upon his brow.

“With your permission, Your Grace” lord Merryweather’s voice almost trembles with hesitation, fearful of the reaction of the king. “There is a pressing matter this council has to discuss” Aerys raises a pointy eyebrow towards him, and Arthur can spot the slight curl of the king's lip, an ominous prelude to his temper which could ignite over the most trivial of provocations. “Princess Valaena’s marriage.”

This mention of the Princess Valaena, the beloved jewel of the kingdom, causes a distinct shift in the atmosphere of the room. The council members exchange wary glances as the name of the only daughter of the monarches is put over the table. They all have witnessed during the years the mood swifts and the affronts of Aerys towards his own daughter, branding her as ‘bastard’, ‘dragonspawn’ or worse only because the colour of her hair is darker than the rest of her family, and they have developed various degrees of sympathy towards her. Arthur Dayne himself stiffens when Merryweather dares to speak her name, thinking of him as unfit to even think about his princess.

“We should wait” Rhaegar Targaryen, the Crowned Prince, also shows himself most uncomfortable in his chair with the idea of being separated from his beloved sister. “My lady wife is still recovering and she gladly keeps her company. It would not be wise to rush matters.”

The tension around the table is palpable. A quick glance from Rhaegar to both kingsguards looks more like a plea than he actually wants to.

“Nonsense!” the king screeches, the council apparently having passed over the menacing looks of the loon, with his nails more like claws pointing at his own son and heir and to his master of ships, who dares to agree with the prince. “That girl will be useful to the crown for once in her life.”

“Your majesty” lord Velaryon counterattacks, having properly made his work towards the eyes of the Mad King for quite a time, “with your permission, I would suggest the lady Valaena to get married to me. Houses Velaryon and Targaryen have had a shared history towards the centuries, and Driftmark would prove a safe refuge to our much beloved princess.”

Aerys, his gaze sharp as the blades his ancestors wielded, seems to consider consider Velaryon's proposal with a mixture of intrigue and suspicion. Leaving hopes for a response hanging in the air like a thick fog, he seems to find amusement in the pause, rejoicing himself as he crashes Lucerys Velaryon’s hopes with an acrid cackle.

“Do you think that I would allow my only daughter to be pushed to the margins of my realm, hidden away on Driftmark, while I sit the Iron Throne?” Aerys’s voice rises, filled with annoyance and madness, and it seems that the balls of every member of the council shake on their pedestals over the table “How dare you to even think of putting a hand on her!?”

It seems this time the protective father has taken the place of the abusive parent, and if it weren’t for the space between them both, with Aerys sat at the head of the table and the Lord of the Tides almost at the other side of it, the king would have easily thrown his wine cup to his face, or even worse.

“Your Grace” it is this time Lord Varys’ modulled voice to speak, and the whole bunch of men put their attention upon him, the Master of Whispers. The Spider. “I can think of a much more adequate suitor for the princess’ hand” his eyes dart towards Lucerys Velaryon, who just answers with a half lidded gaze behind his own cup. “Storm’s End.”

He was just a lad when the tragedy of Shipbreaker’s Bay took place, only a mere squire to prince Lewyn before he joined the Kingsguard himself. The death of the beloved Steffon Baratheon and his lady Cassana stroke the Red Keep, with queen Rhaella helplessly weeping for them in the Great Sept of Baelor and the Mad King descending upon madness more quickly even.

“Lord Steffon and lady Cassana died in a mission for the Crown, and the young stags would surely feel again protected by the Crown if their house would join house Targaryen again, like two generations ago with the arrival of princess Rhaelle.”

Both kingsguards exchange glances, almost like searching an explanation or even a support. If the only unsullied member of that wretched family was to be taken away, what could be awaiting around the corner?

“Storm’s End seems the most appropriate place, father” Rhaegar’s measured words leave Arthur and Barristan nonplussed. “Robert Baratheon is a force to be considered, and Valaena can be the most ideal way to make him bend the knee to the Crown’s wishes.” Both knights look at the prince, their expressions a mix of concern and understanding. They knew the politics of the realm as well as any, and the value of strategic marriages could not be underestimated, but Rhaegar giving up his sister, his only confident, the receiver of his hopes and praises, is something none of them can explain. “Besides, it is close to Kingslanding, with a safe passage through the Kingswood now that ser Arthur led the royal offensive and cleaned the road of thieves.”

As soon as the meeting meets its end, quickly Arthur and Barristan make their way towards Rhaegar, whose paces drive him to the Master of Whispers. Both knights carefully take their places behind them as the prince and the Spider talk about trivialities before the conversation takes a sharp turn into more pressing matters. The air around them thickens with tension as Rhaegar's tone becomes earnest, almost urgent.

“Do tell me there is a good reason for having placed that wretched idea on the table.” he grits, trying to look as calm and regal as always, the type of king Westeros deserves instead of Aerys.

“I seem to recall that you and I pursue the same interests, Your Highness. Our primary aim is to ensure the stability and prosperity of the realm,” the Spider responds, his voice smooth and measured, a stark contrast to the prince’s fight to keep his composure.

Barristan Selmy swiftly opens a door, half hidden at mere sight and the three of them end up pushing Varys inside, quickly closing it behind, making sure nobody listens to their clandestine meeting. The room, lit by a single flickering candle, casts long shadows across the faces of the men, adding an air of mystery.

“You have to be kidding, Spider” the Stormlander spits, arms crossed over his chest, clearly disgusted.

“We share a common goal, despite our interests being different” the bald man observes each and every one of them and Arthur finds it hard to not gut that man in that room and let his heart drive his actions. “With the temperamental Robert Baratheon linked to the crown, maybe one day he witnesses one of the King’s fits and surprises us. I find it surprising that none of you have reached that thought…”

“How sure you are that he will risk everything for the princess?”

It is not a question, but almost a growl that escapes his lips. With his wrist resting carelessly over Dawn’s pommel, Arthur’s lilac eyes observe the eunuch’s face with attention, ready to defend Valaena’s honour if he musts.

“She is a complete delight” a cunning smile upon Varys’ thin lips repulses him. “There are lots of young lords who would gladly risk their titles, their lands, even their lives for a chance to stand beside her. All she has to do is charm him, and he will do whatever she wishes, no matter the cost. Power, in its most intoxicating form, wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”

Arthur’s grip on Dawn tightens with the mere thought of his princess used as a mere tool in the dangerous games of court. The idea of Valaena, with her vibrant laugh and kind heart, being manipulated by those who see her as nothing more than a pawn in their quests for power fills him with a cold, seething anger. Yet, amidst this storm of emotions, a steadfast resolve takes root within him. He knows the challenges that lay ahead are daunting, but the thought of Valaena facing these alone is something he cannot, and will not, entertain. The fire in his heart, fueled by his love and unwavering determination, ignites a clear path forward. He vows to himself to keep her away from any harm, to guard her as long as he breathes, to stand by her side against the shadows that seek to engulf her.

Only when Rhaegar dismisses the Master of Whispers he allows himself to show the true depth of his concern.

“What happened to the vision, Rhaegar?” his voice, bitter, reflects the turmoil swirling within him. “We were supposed to protect her, to ensure her safety above all else. Have we lost ourselves that badly in the webs of the spider that we are unable to see the light with our own eyes?”

The vision. How hard it had been to handle the burden of such a prophecy, one who sealed the fate of the young princess to a loveless marriage, to the hopes of bearing a saviour, the future of house Targaryen depending on her fragile shoulders… At least she has Elia by her side. For a short while.

[fantasylandblues]

polyamorous!targcest au

alright so based on the fact that i've taken a liking to pretty much every incestuous targaryen ship there is i couldn't help but try and figure out a way they could ALL work together. and thank FUCK for polyamory and fucked up targaryen traditions for that.

so here's my two cents at simultaneous helaemond, helaegon, aegmond, lucemond, jaceluke and jacela (targtower & lucemond centric).

warnings: suggestive material (nothing explicit), NOT beta'ed whatsoever, hotd-typical incest (canon + non-canon)

it isn't unheard of that Targaryens have strange traditions when it comes to wedding brothers and sisters. i'll go even further as to say that laying with siblings is considered natural and even expected within their house. that way, having been introduced to sexuality by those who are closest to them and most alike, there's no need to fear inexperience or nervousness come the day of performing their marital duties, whether that be to, well, each other, or someone else entirely.

(let's just pretend there is no such thing as the pressures surrounding the bride's virginity here. i also believe that marriage would be a *mostly* straight institution as they're mainly meant to further the dynasty and that fooling around in any way wouldn't be frowned upon).

the Targaryen-Hightowers are an interesting case in that sense, having all been born within relatively short breaks from each other, and so they've always been through every experience together. that has brought them closer over the years, especially in their adolescence. Aemond and Helaena had always found common ground in their strangeness and feelings of misplacement; Aegon had always been fond of his sweet sister despite it, but mostly attracted to her ethereal beauty - and body, as she came of age. Aegon, however, would only grow that same kind of respect for his brother after he'd claimed his dragon, and at one point had to admit to himself that his brother, too, was growing into a rather handsome young man, taller and more intimidating, his hair becoming longer and his shoulders broadening from all the sword training.

Helaena naturally first grew closer to Aegon, due to his age, but soon her instincts would act towards her younger brother as well, as he grew to match her in height and beauty. it was all very natural; at one point their brotherly love morphed into physical desire, their touches turning into softer caresses which then turned into kissing and curious, wandering hands. Aemond even became Helaena's favourite for a while; they'd spend many evenings seeking 'comfort from nightmares' in each other's chambers. after that, Aegon would become more possessive of her and greedy, but she swore to have never forgotten him.

many were the times Aegon caught her with Aemond and vice versa - they did share neighboring chambers, after all - up until one time Aegon, aided by good alcohol, took the leap of courage and decided to join them. and after the initial embarassment of silently admitting that he, too, desired his brother sexually, and the first awkward touching of each other's nakedness, it was like the pieces finally came together for their glorious, sexual and emotional fulfillment.

if the servants in King's Landing were silently aware of the young princes' odd behaviours, the same went for the two living in Dragonstone, although they could appear innocently brotherly to the untrained eye. having grown closely in age, their bond was ever present and Jacaerys' protectiveness towards Luke grew with each passing day, especially once matters of marriage started being considered for them from an early age.

it was Lucerys' restless and curious nature, reminiscent of Rhaenyra's, what first pushed him to pose those awkward questions to his brother. Lucerys was a natural tease, it seemed; he'd be a menace to whoever deserved the pleasure of his hand in marriage. Jacaerys only hoped that it would be a man, for it seemed that his brother showed no signs of interest in girls as he did. but Jacaerys was more than happy to be his first lay when the time came; it wasn't awkward in the same sense that swordfighting or horseriding together wasn't awkward, either. Lucerys' stamina only seemed to grow alongside his beauty and muscularity, for his brother's great surprise, and it didn't take long for them to make a habit out of it.

the time came for the Dragonstone boys to be married as Rhaenyra seized an oportunity. parting ways meant that there would be little of their tradition from then on, but they reckoned they'd already had their fair share of brotherly love in their teen years. Jace would be married off to his cousin Baela, who he had been secretly in love with since childhood if he were to admit, to secure the ties with house Velaryon.

it seemed perfect enough if it wasn't for the other end of the deal. as war negotiations became messy and both sides grew tired, Rhaenyra reckoned the unusual situation at hand called for a never-before-seen deal: her youngest to be wed to Alicent's youngest, since Alicent's eldest was already wed to his sister. the entirety of the council frothed at the mouth at this, but Rhaenyra knew her youngest enough to trust in him fully; he was just like her at that age. she knew he would be able to deal with his future husband's unpredictable nature; she'd seen the looks they exchanged in their short visits to the mainland.

to everyone's surprise: Alicent took it. as much as she wished for Aemond to marry in exchange for alliance, she wished to reunite her family the most. Lucerys would be coming to King's Landing, leaving the wooden throne of Driftmark to be passed on to the Velaryon girls.

Aemond tried as hard as he managed to mantain his hardened facade and appear distasteful at first. he never wished to marry Helaena, for he knew she was betrothed to Aegon from early on, but he feared that things would turn different between them. that soon proved to be wrong, though, as he realized that Lucerys understood perfectly the political nature of their agreement. he could give less of a crap about the sex noises coming from the other room, as long as Aemond still had it in him to force all of those same sinful sounds out of him once he returned to their shared chamber.

HELP this crawled its way out of me in one sitting. i should be sleeping. i should be finishing other stuff i'm writing. oh well. please leave a note if this is anything. my askbox is also open if u wanna discuss things!~

[barbswo]

I think I missed the Q&A :(

I was going to ask, what interested or drew you to Lucemond as a ship? (I know I have many reasons;) & what aspects/traits about them do you think attracts them to each other the most in ‘Tides’?😉

Don’t worry, I’ll host more! I had too much fun with you guys on the last one)

Moving on to your question:

You know, I had to go back and reread the texts I was sending my bf after having watched the first season, because I couldn’t pinpoint the moment in which I first thought about those two as a ship. I vividly remember seeing Lucerys grinning at Aemond across the table at that family supper and thinking “oh, that one will be a menace” (at that point I never opened ‘Fire and Blood’) and then the 10th episode hit, and I was mad. And what do I do when I’m mad? Yup, I go to ao3.

After spending an ungodly amount of time searching for fics that would be to my liking, I stumbled upon Lucemond. Then my tiktok fyp caught up, I bought myself a copy of ‘Fire and Blood’, read it, and my brain started spinning with the same infamous question that made me itch with a need to sit down and write my version of a story since I was like 12.

“But what if?..”

What if Lucerys had time to grow? What kind of a person he would become? What would his role be in the Dance, had it been postponed?

Lucemond sort of came as an afterthought. I was tired of seeing the same toxic, arrogant, devilishly handsome yet blank character Aemond was being written as in 90% of stories, because I couldn’t help but think what it would be like to be thrown as some kind of souless weapon into a war you had no intention of starting, being what? A teenager? How would he realistically react to all of that, being fed the idea of Rhaenyra and her family being the enemy since he was a child? How would his morals shift? What would their dynamic with grown Lucerys be like, once their skills reached the same level of excelence?

All those questions started giving me ideas, and I couldn’t find one story that would encapsulate them, so I sighed, opened a notebook and started writing.

Now about aspects and traits that attract those two to each other in ‘Tides’.

For Aemond, it obviously started with jealousy. Not only the bastard that took his eye isn’t punished, he has a brother that actually cares for him, speaks High Valyrian like a pro and refuses to burn—while Aemond is rotting in the Red Keep, alone and angry, his potential never recognized even by those closest to him. Jealousy spikes anger, anger spikes fury, fury bleeds into astonishment—and voila, our boy is hooked. Aemond is a simple guy at his core, to be honest. You tell him you hate him and he tilts his head and asks you to prove it.

For Lucerys, it was frustration. Imagine being called names over and over again, every insult followed by promises of vengeance and death—promises that never come to life. And then you spend some time apart, grow up, learn to defend yourself, and suddenly realize that the person you are supposed to be scared of is just as messed up as you are, and far more stupid. And you just want to shake them and bellow, “What do you fcking need from me?”, but they keep surprising you, so your frustration grows into curiosity.

Hadn’t Viserys died, I think they would’ve solved their issues in weeks. Because before the Dance hit they weren’t enemies, not really, more like rivals that had some bad blood between them, and most of their intense feelings were born out of bottled-down attraction. Once they got over themselves and talked, everything would be okay. Unfortunately for us, this is a story about a civil war.

And wars are never pretty.

I could go on and on about the intricacies of Tides!Lucemond, but I’ve never liked explaining my writing, because in truth, it’s all already out there. At this point in the story they both have seen the good and the bad in each other and accepted both sides of their coins. I’ve said this before, but I don’t believe in Lucemond if those two aren’t equally psychotic, and I wrote them to match “each other’s freaks”, so I guess their shared insanity works like a magnet there, too.

They still have a long road ahead of them. Both will make mistakes and choices. Tides are changing.

New chapter out soon.